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Monday, January 16, 2012

As previously chronicled, and despite my flubbertastic appearance, I go to the gym quite frequently. I had the rare occasion to go to the gym with Miracle Man one recent morning, whereupon he and one of the spin instructors conned me into taking a spin class. I was wary because the bikes have lots of adjustable stuff on them and I'm easily intimidated by things I can fall off of. But the instructor showed me how to adjust the bike and I figured all the squats I've done with Holloway lately meant that my legs could handle the class.

Wasn't the first time I've been wrong.

Have you ever taken spin? Holy burnin' biscuits, Batman! Between the seat that must have been designed by sadists and purchased by masochists all over the world, and the use of muscles that I didn't even know I owned, the class turned out to be a lot more challenging that I had ever imagined. And when I say, "the class," I mean the first 20 minutes of the class before the instructor kindly let all the newbies go. Since I was the only newbie in the class that day, I slinked off the bike and out of the classroom all by my lonesome.

My initial instinct was to drop face down on the floor and moan until my patootie was no longer on fire, but I was afraid that might alarm some of the other people at the gym. After all, it was the first week in January and there were A LOT of new members milling about. Since they were not people I knew, I was afraid the general reaction would be, "Fatty down!! Call 9-1-1 and tell 'em to send the strong guys!!!" They would not have realized that Sassyfats would be OK, she just needed a few minutes to herself. So I dug down deep to find whatever physical strength I had left, kept myself vertical, and listened to the imaginary basketball coach in my head who told me to walk it off. So I headed for the treadmills.

The treadmills at my gym are on a platform. This platform requires you to go up one step. On an ordinary day, this little step is not an issue. On this day, however, the little step looked like a steep, icy mountain. With fangs. My patootie, still on fire from what I'd just put it through, looked at the fangy mountain and said, "You gotta be kiddin' me." So I limped over to the track, which was blissfully free of fellow humans, and began hobbling from one end to the next.

Ordinarily when I use the track, I bring hand weights with me and do bicep curls. Or sometimes I'll do shoulder presses while doing a funky little high step. That day I just walked. No hand weights, no high step, nothing fancy. Just walking with as slight a limp as possible so as to not draw too much attention to myself. I got over the fear of looking stupid a long time ago, but I still have some standards. Ultimately it took about five minutes of walking for my poor muscles to calm down enough for a gooooood looooonnnng stretch. That. Felt. Good.

You may be asking yourself if Sassyfats will ride again. Abso-freakin-lutely! The endorphin rush I got from those 20 minutes of torture was totally worth the ass fire. Thank you sir, can I have another?! I don't know how long it will take to work up to a full class. But I'ma get there. I'll just be sure to bring a fire extinguisher next time.